This Isn’t Pizza | August 2010 | Milan, Italy
Prosciutto Pizza in the Galleria
After the initial fish-in-a-new-fishbowl shock, and having digested the fact overnight that we were experiencing a wringed-out version of Milanese life, we hiked up our fanny packs and set out to take Milan by storm. Hurricane Shameless & Obnoxious Tourists, I’d call it.
I’ll never forget the tingles I felt, starting in my calves, splashing onto my neck & around my ears, as we climbed up the stairs out of the Rosso metro stop and saw it — bit by bit, step by step, the majestic Duomo bobbing into view overhead.
I’ve. Waited. For. This. Exact. Moment, I thought. Ever since I tacked a picture of it onto my Vision Board and decided, I’m going abroad there, goddamnit, and I’ll know it’s real when I take that exact picture, but with me in the middle. I almost cried. Accomplishment has never felt that way before.
We took pictureafterpictureafterpicture, traversed the Duomo’s roof, skipped through the Galleria and smiled at all the things we could never afford. In true my-mother form, we ate what was, in hindsight, probably the most expensive pizza I had all semester — we were asking for it, since the patio overlooked the wannabes and gotta-bes and already-am,-get-out-of-my-way,-tourist-s clacking through the Galleria. People watching climbed to my list of Things I Need To Do More This Semester as I saw a living slideshow of Milan. Mom gasped and thought out loud about how this has to be authentic Italian pizza.
She was right.
That pizza was what I discovered Italy to be:
Strong on the basics, and because of that, delicious.